


I Really Am Your Color

by heyitsathrowaway



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Knifeplay, lipstick etcetera, sorta kinda a coda to 2.03, you know thematically speaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 10:44:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18589651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyitsathrowaway/pseuds/heyitsathrowaway
Summary: “Aw,” croons Villanelle, her thumb rough against Eve’s lip. “You still have the scar. That’s cute.”“My scar tissue is cute now?” Eve has to talk around Villanelle’s thumb; it’s in her mouth now. She kind of wants to bite it and taste Villanelle’s blood. She kind of wants to run. She kind of wants to take Villanelle’s wrist, yank her hand out of Eve’s mouth, and snap it right in two.She has those sorts of impulses these days, and it’s Villanelle’s fucking fault. Eve would tell her that, too, if she hadn’t already replaced her thumb with her mouth, biting delicately. “Fuck you,” Eve says, muffled again, and then Villanelle bites downhard, and that’s better, thank God, that’s Villanelle.





	I Really Am Your Color

**Author's Note:**

> killing eve more like can you BELIEVE this shit is just airing, on our TVs, while we're all alive and get to watch it???
> 
> watched the end of 2.03, got possessed by the ghost who tells me to write porn about killing eve once a year, now we're here. the usual story!

“Aw,” croons Villanelle, her thumb rough against Eve’s lip. “You still have the scar. That’s cute.”

“My scar tissue is cute now?” Eve has to talk around Villanelle’s thumb; it’s in her mouth now. She kind of wants to bite it and taste Villanelle’s blood. She kind of wants to run. She kind of wants to take Villanelle’s wrist, yank her hand out of Eve’s mouth, and snap it right in two. 

She has those sorts of impulses these days, and it’s Villanelle’s fucking fault. Eve would tell her that, too, if she hadn’t already replaced her thumb with her mouth, biting delicately. “Fuck you,” Eve says, muffled again, and then Villanelle bites down _hard_ , and that’s better, thank God, that’s Villanelle. 

“I picked that color for you,” Villanelle says, her hands in Eve’s hair, pulling it out of the ponytail that Eve had put it in mostly out of spite. “I knew it would look perfect. I wish I could have seen it.”

“Then maybe you should have gotten me the version without a fucking razor blade, you _absolute psycho_.”

“It’s only fair. You stabbed me! I’m not supposed to want a teensy bit of revenge?”

“You’ve killed at least twenty people,” Eve says. “I think you can handle a little stab wound.”

“ _Twenty_? What am I, an amateur? Besides. You like that about me,” Villanelle says, smug and reproachful all at once. “I’m _your_ absolute psycho, and you’re mine, and you don’t care about that _Ghost_ , now do you?” She’s running her hand through Eve’s hair now, arranging it around her face just so and leaning back to inspect her work. Eve needs to—she forgets what she needs to do. She had a plan. A good plan, the kind so good it involved ditching MI6 and going on her own, because Carolyn is shutting her out and Niko left ten days ago and Elena hasn’t been picking up Eve’s calls, and she is the only one who understands Villanelle. She’s the only one who can catch her. 

And she will. That’s why Eve is here, after all. Just that.

“I don’t care about the Ghost,” Eve says, while she’s thinking about all that, which is a tactical error. That’s right. Her plan was to make Villanelle jealous. Villanelle doesn’t look jealous. She looks incandescent, radiant, her eyes wide in a surprised kind of pleasure. She wriggles a little bit, bouncing on her feet. 

“I knew you didn’t,” Villanelle says. “Konstantin, he tried to convince me you’d moved on, but I knew you only had eyes for me.” She moves her hand to Eve’s mouth again, and Eve grabs her wrist, grip tight.

“Ooh,” Villanelle says. “You’ve changed.”

“Not really.” Eve thinks again about breaking Villanelle’s wrist. She drags her in close instead.

Villanelle goes easily, always happy enough to comply when things are already going her way. She goes, and shoves Eve down against the bed—a nice hotel this time, either one that Villanelle picked herself or that Konstantin picked out for her while he was in a good mood—and kisses her, hard, her full weight balanced on top of Eve. Her hair’s in some kind of fancy updo that Eve never learned the name of, and when Eve starts pulling out pins it goes everywhere.

“Stop that,” Villanelle says. “I worked hard to look nice for you, you know.”

“Well, obviously it’s appreciated,” Eve says. She feels a familiar old hysteria creeping up her throat. What is she _doing_? 

Villanelle does look beautiful, hair falling along the slope of her neck, stray bobby pins raining down onto the hotel bedspread. She’d look nice spread across it. 

Eve sits up, and Villanelle pushes her right back down with the strength it’s easy to forget she has, just by looking at her. But Eve knows her. Eve doesn’t forget.

“Down, girl,” Villanelle says. “I want to show you something first.”

 _Oh, great_ , thinks the rapidly dwindling rational part of Eve’s mind, _this is when she pulls out a knife and kills you for real this time_. 

What Villanelle actually grabs, leaning over to dig around in the nightstand and giving Eve an unfortunately great view of her tits, and the fact that she definitely doesn’t have a bra on under that top, is a tube of lipstick. Which doesn’t really rule out the possibility of imminent murder. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Villanelle says. She pops the cap off and purses her lips. “It’s perfectly safe. Here, let me show you.” She puts it on, messily and with a flourish. Villanelle can probably put on lipstick without a mirror in her sleep, but her hand’s shaking a little. Eve did that. Eve did that just by being in this room. Villanelle presses her lips together and then sticks them out like a fish. “See? Perfectly safe. And beautiful.”

“It’s not really your color.”

“How rude!” Villanelle squints down at Eve, as if she were looking in a mirror. “Maybe you’re right. Let me see.” She leans down. Villanelle kisses her slow this time, and when she pulls back her eyes are bright. Catlike, just like Eve said after the first time they met. She runs her thumb below Eve’s bottom lip, tracing it with her eyes as she does it. “You’re right. It really is your color,” she says, almost on a sigh. “But something’s missing, don’t you think?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“Trust me,” Villanelle says. Her thumbnail digs into the place where Eve cut her lip all those weeks ago, and Eve opens her mouth to bitch about it, but then Villanelle’s teeth are there instead. Eve gasps—last time Villanelle was just playing, but this time she’s serious. It hurts, _fuck_ , it hurts, and Eve tries to shove her off and Villanelle just pins her wrists to the bed, easy, she could overpower Eve any day of the week. And Eve knows this, she knew this, and she still let Villanelle get her on her back on a hotel bed because—because—

Villanelle smacks her lips. “You taste good,” she says seriously, and it should be funny. She’s got lipstick and blood smeared all over her mouth, and that should be hilarious, except Eve knows she can’t look any better—probably looks worse, she’s the one bleeding. She should try to get up, try to get out, but she doesn’t want to. She hasn’t wanted to since the moment after she stabbed Villanelle in her flat in Paris and realized just how in over her head she really was. She’s been drowning since the day she met Villanelle. It’s time she finally stopped gasping for air. 

Eve wipes her thumb across her own mouth. It is a nice color. Not the same as Love in an Elevator. A little bit darker. It probably does suit Eve. It suits Villanelle.

“It’s called Seduction,” Villanelle says helpfully. 

“It is not.”

“It is!” Villanelle shoves the tube in Eve’s face. It is. Eve remembers talking shit with Elena, comparing stupid lipstick names they’d found at the drugstore. Was that really ever her life?

“You’re not very subtle, are you.” Eve’s voice sounds detached to her own ears. Villanelle drops the lipstick. It goes rolling off the bed. 

“ _Thank_ you,” Villanelle says. “No, I am not.” 

Eve’s lip throbs. Her heart’s pounding. Villanelle has a knee between her thighs and Eve doubts it’s going to move anytime soon. Villanelle grins at her, and licks Eve’s thumb, and then across her mouth, in a way that should be disgusting but is just deeply, regretably hot, like the whole entire joke that is Eve’s life these days. God, she hasn’t gotten laid in months. 

Villanelle presses up with her knee and Eve shudders and presses back down, and Villanelle laughs, absolutely delighted. “I thought I wanted you to fight,” she says, in conspiratorial tones, “but this is so much better!” She rolls off of Eve, flopping bonelessly against the bedspread, limbs spread thoughtlessly around her. “Well?” she asks. “What are you going to do with me now that you’ve caught me?”

Now would be a great time for Eve to pull out a pair of handcuffs and reveal that this has been part of an elaborate sting all along. Too bad she didn’t bring any handcuffs, because she’s a goddamn lunatic. 

Eve leans over the side of the bed to grab the lipstick. Villanelle definitely gropes her ass, but when Eve levers herself back up she’s still just lying innocently back against the bed. 

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Eve says, absently. She takes the lid off of the lipstick, and presses her thumb down against it. It’s buried about a centimeter deeper this time, but she still finds it, the bite of the razor sharp against her skin. She raises an eyebrow at Villanelle.

“Oops,” Villanelle says, unconvincingly, as Eve pushes the lipstick away from the blade in big gross gobs. If she lived a normal life anymore, she’d be worried about getting it on the bedspread that’s probably worth more than a month of her rent. Now, she just wipes the lipstick off on it without thinking. 

Villanelle’s shirt is white, and lacy, and beautiful. Eve grabs it by the hem and smears red all over, and she’s careful as she cuts it open from navel to neck, with what she hopes comes off as deliberation and not a desperate lack of any idea what she’s doing.

“Hey,” Villanelle says, as it falls open around her. She is absolutely not wearing a bra. “Do you know how expensive this shirt was?”

“Shut up.” The scar Eve left on Villanelle’s stomach is still shiny and new, the color of a lipstick Villanelle would never try to put on Eve. Too pink. Villanelle’s stomach is moving fast under Eve’s hands, her voice a little breathless. Eve ignored the way her own hands are trembling and traces the scar, first with her fingers and then with the tip of the razor. It makes Villanelle’s breath come faster. Eve thinks about cutting her again, about driving the knife in and twisting. About how it felt to have Villanelle’s blood all over her hands. How it felt in that moment before Eve went for it, the moment when she was sure they were going to kiss.

“It’s nice, right? Admiring your handiwork?” Villanelle sits up, shrugging out of the remains of her shirt, heedless of the blade in Eve’s hand. Eyes fixed on her mouth. She loops her arms around Eve’s neck with the kind of sinuous sensuality that Eve’s always known she was capable of. When she settles down and stops playing, this is what Villanelle hides underneath. She kisses along Eve’s jaw and against her mouth and trailing up to her ear. “Mine’s better,” she says. “I’ve had more practice.”

Eve can’t see it anymore, but she runs her fingers over the scar, the places where the skin dips. She fans her fingers out wide. “Mine’s bigger.”

Villanelle looks up at her, clearly just to make sure that Eve can see her rolling her eyes. “You know what they say,” she says, leaving messy kisses up and down Eve’s neck. “It’s not the size of the boat—”

Heedless of the bobby pins that are still hanging loose, Eve gets her hand in Villanelle’s hair and pulls her back. Her eyelashes flutter. Eve’s pretty sure it’s only half an act. 

Eve’s starting to get it, maybe, this weird thing that Villanelle has for her hair. She wraps Villanelle’s around her palm, using it as leverage to tilt her head back. Villanelle laughs, a giggle that turns throaty when Eve digs her teeth into her collarbone, biting down until she’s sure she’ll leave a bruise. When she leans back, she can’t stop staring at it, the mark red and livid. 

“See?” says Villanelle. Eve jerks her head up. “You and I are just the same.” She grins. “We are going to have _so_ much fun together.”

Eve wants to argue; Eve wants to stab her, a little, which would really just make Villanelle’s point for her. She shoves her back down against the bed instead, and Villanelle goes down laughing, the laugh of a woman who has everything she wants. 

Part of Eve wants to laugh too. She’s not sure she likes that.

Instead of thinking about it, she does what she’s wanted to do for a really long fucking time, and yanks Villanelle’s pants off. 

“Oh, so _those_ don’t get cut up.” Villanelle props herself up on her elbows to watch, completely unhelpful.

Eve’s not interested in fucking around trying to cut leather with a razorblade still half covered in lipstick; she’s interested in getting Villanelle’s skin under her hands, under her mouth. 

She doesn’t realize it until she’s already pulled them off and they’re balled in her fist, that Villanelle’s underwear is from the same fancy French lingerie store that’s been sending her magazines for months. 

Eve flipped through a few of them—okay, fine, all of them—and there were always a few pages carefully dog-eared. 

“You are unbelievable,” Eve tells her. When she looks up, Villanelle has her hands tucked behind her head, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Like she isn’t brushing her thumb against the mark Eve left on her neck every so often, shivering every time. 

“No,” says Villanelle, “I am _sensational_ , and I also have excellent taste. You really never bought any of them?”

Eve wonders how much chance there is of getting out of this without letting Villanelle see the underwear and bra she’s wearing right now. 

Villanelle reads her silence, and smiles like a cat. “I knew it.” 

“Shut up. Who even wears leather pants anymore?”

“You thought they were hot.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Eve says, and punctuates it this time by biting the inside of Villanelle’s thigh. 

It works, in that it shuts Villanelle up and it keeps Eve from saying anything stupid, and for a little while there’s no sound but Villanelle’s quick breaths and quiet moans and Eve’s mouth wet against her skin, smearing the remains of her lipstick up and down Villanelle’s thigh. She smells amazing. Not like perfume but like _Villanelle_ , and God, when did that become such a fucking turn on?

“You’re such a tease,” Villanelle says, and then she swings a leg over Eve’s shoulder and hits her in the back with her heel. “And you’re _stalling_.”

“Do you really think you’re in a position to be giving orders?” Eve asks. “What was that you said? I caught you, right?” She slides the razor along the same path her mouth took, a hairsbreadth away from Villanelle’s skin. Tracing the path that would kill Villanelle fast and then the one that would kill her slow, and all the points in between.

She thinks about that first kill, about Villanelle slicing open a man’s thigh and leaving him to bleed out in the street. About sitting in her house and cutting her own leg and watching the blood well up, while something else bubbled up inside her, something that wouldn’t let her look away until Niko came up the stairs.

Villanelle shivers when Eve cuts her, in just the same place and in just the same way. She lolls her head back. She looks comfortable, sprawled out on her fancy bed, wearing nothing but the blood starting to drip down her thigh.

“I could kill you,” Eve says, her voice shockingly hoarse. She presses her thumb just below the cut, watching the blood’s path along Villanelle’s skin.

“You won’t,” says Villanelle, sing-song. “You like me too much.”

Eve tightens her grip, and that just makes Villanelle relax further. Eve drags her further down the bed. 

She tastes good against Eve’s mouth. Her blood did too, and something’s wrong with Eve, something is seriously wrong, because that’s the thought that makes her ache between her legs, makes her wonder if there’s a way she gets Villanelle’s hands on her that doesn’t end with her dead.

Villanelle is loud, Villanelle gets her hands in Eve’s hair and won’t stop _pulling_ , and Villanelle is totally in Eve’s control for the first time since all of this started, since the first time Eve looked at that man bled out in the street from one tiny nick and thought, _how cool_.

Eve’s lip still hurts, and Villanelle is squirming under her hands, kicking her heel against Eve’s back and only laughing when Eve turns to bite down on her thigh in retaliation. Eve’s not sure she’s felt this alive in a long, long time. 

Eve pulls back, because she likes the way Villanelle laughed just then, like she’s falling apart. She bites Villanelle just above where she cut her and then just below, and when she tastes blood in her mouth she’s not sure whose it is. She’s not sure it really matters. 

“Hurry _up_ ,” Villanelle says, in the kind of whine that would be put-upon from anyone else. From Villanelle, it’s just honest. Eve rolls her eyes and presses two fingers inside her. She fucks her slowly, because she’s pretty sure that’s what Villanelle will hate the most. 

Villanelle kicks her again, so she’s absolutely right. Of course she’s right. Who knows Villanelle better than Eve?

“Come on,” Eve says, and she sounds exasperated but she also sounds _fond_ , which is really not what she was going for. “Are you seriously telling me you can’t be good for five literal seconds?”

“I can be _good_ ,” Villanelle snaps, in that offended tone she gets. And she can, it turns out. She whines when Eve crooks her fingers, when she kisses her hip with barely any teeth, when she rubs her clit in the kind of slow maddening circles that Eve once kicked Niko in the head for. (It was an accident. Mostly.) But Villanelle doesn’t kick her. She doesn’t grab Eve by the hair and put her where she wants her. She lies back and takes it, the kind of complacency Eve’s not sure she’ll ever see from her again. 

Eve doesn’t know what she’s waiting for until she gets it, Villanelle babbling _please_ over and over, no room for any games or jokes or anything but pure desperation. Villanelle finally, truly caught. Suspended like this just for a single moment, tight in Eve’s grip. 

And then it ends like it always does: Villanelle caught, and still getting what she wants. Eve fucking her fast and leaning in to lick her clit and digging her nails in hard against the back of Villanelle’s thigh, hard enough that she’s pretty sure she’s drawing blood by the time Villanelle comes in slow shivery waves, gasping out Eve’s name.

Eve wipes her hand on the blankets, which are definitely getting charged to the room at this point. She means to look up at Villanelle’s face, but she gets stuck on the mess she’s made of her thighs, wet and bloody and bruised. She could cut her again; the lipstick only rolled to the end of the bed. Eve could cut her to kill this time. Maybe she should. But Eve thinks she’s already made her point.

“Get up here,” Villanelle says, sounding almost frantic. She reaches for Eve, apparently unwilling to sit up far enough that she can actually grab her. “Get up here, _get up here_ ,” and Eve goes, because that’s what you do when the murderer you just fucked on a hotel bed tells you to, apparently. Once Eve gets close enough, Villanelle drags her up the bed, Eve’s knees sliding along the blanket and her forearms falling to bracket Villanelle’s shoulders. Villanelle kisses her like she’ll die if she doesn’t, like she needs Eve to breathe.

Eve knows exactly how she feels. 

They break apart, and Villanelle’s eyes are so wide. Something in Eve aches, looking at her, something just this side of tender.

Or maybe that’s just the fact that she still really needs to come. Niko always said she couldn’t tell the difference between being hungry and pissed off, and it’s probably kind of the same thing. 

Villanelle presses her thumb against Eve’s lip again. “I really am your color,” she says, voice a little dreamy. Eve just stares at her, feeling like she’s lost all the footing she gained, as if she’s the one naked on the bed and not the one still wearing all her clothes. 

Villanelle sits up, forcing Eve to lean back. She can’t quite find her balance, and then Villanelle has an arm wrapped around her back, the other one going to Eve’s fly. She gets her hand in Eve’s pants, in the stupid expensive underwear Eve bought because she knew Villanelle thought they’d look nice. 

Or maybe what Villanelle was thinking was how good they would feel like this, pressed between Villanelle’s hand and her skin, her thumb rubbing slow circles through the fabric.

It _does_. Eve’s always had a thing for lace, and if Villanelle knew that somehow then Eve really is going to kill her.

Eve buries her face in Villanelle’s neck, because it’s that or deal with the way she’s looking at Eve, something close to rapturous. 

“I knew you’d like them,” Villanelle says into her ear. “I bought a pair of all of them, you know, and touched myself just like this. Just to try it. I still think about you a lot.”

 _Duh_ , Eve wants to say, but she’s got no breath to do it. Thinking about Villanelle with her hand pressed against herself, Eve’s name on her lips, is just like the sting of the razor: sharp and then aching, the kind of cut that lingers because Eve can’t stop fiddling at it with her teeth.

“Come on,” Villanelle says, “I want to hear you,” and it’s only then that Eve realizes she’s been biting her lip, despite the way it throbs. Villanelle moves her hand from Eve’s back to her hair and yanks her up into a kiss, and Eve already reopened the cut but Villanelle bites it anyway. Eve jerks her hips and comes like that, with Villanelle’s teeth digging in. 

Eve collapses against her, feeling wrung out and kind of gross and a little depressed about the fact that she’s either going to have to steal some of Villanelle’s underwear or go without if she ever wants to leave this room. Both options would make Villanelle too fucking happy. 

“Get your hand out of my fucking pants,” she mumbles into Villanelle’s shoulder. Villanelle laughs, and flops back down against the bed like a starfish, taking Eve with her.

“Seduction always works for me. It’s my best color, you know.”

“Really?” Eve reaches down blindly, digging her thumb into the soft meat of Villanelle’s thigh. It’s not hard to guess where to aim—the skin there’s probably more bruise than not. The sound Villanelle makes is very gratifying. “I think it looks a little better on me, actually.”

“See?” Villanelle says. “ _So_ much fun.”


End file.
